


Kitchen - Hallway

by AustinB



Series: Stucky Wonderland [6]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, Supersoldiers in Love, oblivious idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-06 01:23:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5397638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AustinB/pseuds/AustinB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Why don't you want to live with me?" If he wanted his space or his independence, he'd have said so before, not the infinitely more vulnerable, "I don't think it would be a good idea."</p><p>Bucky seems surprised; not in his features, but in the length of time it takes him to answer. Finally, "I can't. I wouldn't want to—to make you uncomfortable."</p><p>It hits Steve like a punch to the gut. </p><p>Wouldn't want to walk down the hall in a towel after a shower and risk Steve popping an inappropriate boner, now would we? He might spontaneously burst into big gay flames, poor soul.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kitchen - Hallway

One of the guests at his housewarming barbecue is an actual alien (Steve can't bring himself to think of Thor as a god, especially when he's got ketchup on his shirt) and the absolute madness of his present life is not lost on Steve. He's getting used to it though, the semi-frequent pangs of _what the actual fuck_ (a phrase Darcy taught him that applies pretty well to a lot of the situations he finds himself in).

His new two-story brick house has a decent backyard and aging neighbors, so their party doesn't attract too much over-the-fence-peeking, aside from Mrs. Levitz, who offers a wave and a "Hallo, Steve!" She's got cataracts and probably doesn't recognize the faces anyway.

Steve's grilling the burgers and Bucky and Sam stand nearby, beers in hand, shooting the shit.

Bucky started looking for a place at the same time Steve did, and he can't think too hard on that. He'd already been to a couple apartments when Steve found this out, and by the time the sting of the imagined rejection had worn off, he felt his chance to ask had passed. But they were talking about it again. Bucky had seen ten apartments and his realtor was getting impatient with him.

"What's wrong with them?" Sam asks.

"Dunno. I've had a place to put my head for the past year, now I kinda want a home. None of them feel like it."

Steve takes a swig of his beer and pokes at the burgers to keep the grief at bay. He has two bedrooms and an office; a privacy fence around his backyard and a fireplace. 

"How the burgers comin' grill master?" Sam asks, and Steve realizes it's been silent for several beats.

"Ready when you are."

Thor brought Asgardian mead, but Steve can only take a sip before his head starts to swim in a way he finds he's no longer comfortable with. Tony halfheartedly tries to get him to move back into the Tower; they play lawn darts—Barton wins, to the surprise of no one. The contrast between the domesticity of this moment and the fact that nine days ago they were fighting a being made entirely of green slime is almost too much.

Steve's washing strawberries in the kitchen when Bucky drifts in. 

"Hey."

"Hey."

The silence stretches, and since Steve has something to do with his hands and he's afraid repressing it will only make him bitter, he finally just blurts, "You could move in here."

The _with me_ hangs loudly between them.

Steve chances a glance up and the look on Bucky's face breaks his heart. He's chewing his lower lip, eyebrows knotted in a confusing mixture of longing and anguish.

"I don't think that would be—"

"Ok, that's okay."

"Steve."

"No, no worries. I get it."

He doesn't. At all. He'd never given Bucky reason to think his affection for him was more than friendly, had he? His looks never too long or heated, even when Bucky's shirtless and sweating in the gym and all Steve wants is to throw him onto the mat and cover him with his body. 

So why is he so hesitant? He remembers more than he forgets these days; his eyes are clear and bright; he's part of the team. Steve knows it won't be like it was before, and that's ok. But living together, in the same space, the close camaraderie of shared quarters with the man he loves... Truthfully it sounds like some sort of acute torture, but he also _wants_ it with a ferocity that leaves him breathless.

There's a bowl of cubed cantaloupe on the counter and Bucky pops one in his mouth, nods, and goes back outside.

Natasha comes inside a moment later, pulls a beer out of the fridge, then stops in her tracks.

"Steve?"

"Nothing, I'm fine."

"Steve." 

"What?"

She doesn't believe him. She probably already knows what's on his mind, anyway. He'll always bet on Natasha rather than against her.

He shoots for a self-deprecating smile, the one that always came naturally to him. He opens his mouth to stumble over an explanation, but Natasha doesn't even let him try—bless her.

"Give him time," she says softly.

It catches him off guard. He didn't expect something with so much _hope_ attached to it. "What do you mean?"

"Yeah, he's doing great, but it's not gonna just go back to the way it was before. Not right away, maybe not ever."

He has so many questions he wants to ask her; ridiculous ones she couldn't possibly know the answer to like _does he love me?_ but she projects such confidence that for a moment he considers airing out the words anyway, seeing what she'd say.

She just smiles at him and pops a piece of cantaloupe in her mouth before she returns to the yard. 

* * *

Bucky spends a lot of time at his house, anyway. The sheets on the guest bed haven't been slept on, and Steve has stopped offering. Bucky sleeps on the couch with one throw pillow and an afghan. Better lines of sight.

Until one night, it's 3 a.m. after a night of playing stupid fantasy computer games with Bucky that require a headset and often include a lot of yelling into them, Steve wakes to quiet sounds downstairs. He pads down the hall past the guest bedroom to find the comforter turned down and the sheets rumpled. Bucky's in the kitchen, wearing just a pair of sweatpants—the stylish kind with the cuff around the bottom—and one pantleg is hiked up to his calf. He's bent down into the fridge and the pale light casts shadows over the side of his face and glint off the metal arm. The rush of affection makes Steve's greeting a little breathless.

"Midnight snack?"

Bucky shrugs and closes the fridge without taking anything out. Nightmare, then. Bucky's found Steve aimlessly wandering the house at 3 a.m. enough times that they both know the truth.

Steve's filter must not have woken up with the rest of him, because he says,

"Why don't you want to live with me?" If he wanted his space or his independence, he'd have said so before, not the infinitely more vulnerable, _"I don't think it would be a good idea."_

Bucky seems surprised; not in his features, but in the length of time it takes him to answer. Finally, "I can't. I wouldn't want to—to make you uncomfortable."

It hits Steve like a punch to the gut. 

Wouldn't want to walk down the hall in a towel after a shower and risk Steve popping an inappropriate boner, now would we? He might spontaneously burst into big gay flames, poor soul.

"I know you're not—" _interested in men—in me_. Steve feels a babble coming on, the word vomit burning his mouth like bile, wanting to explain himself, to lie. So to spare himself the embarrassment of probably saying too much, he bites out, sharper than intended, "Don't worry about me," and beats a hasty retreat. He catches Bucky's eyes narrowing suspiciously, but his legs are already in motion.

"I was worried about me, actually," Bucky says from the doorway and Steve stops at the stairs, hand on the railing. "Wouldn't be able to keep my hands off you."

Of all the cruel things to— "That's not funny."

"Wasn't meant to be."

There's honesty in his face and Steve knows, even if Bucky is half a mystery to him these days, knows he would never be so unkind. Steve can only gape for a solid minute, starting and discarding three or four different sentences.

"You never—" all the dates, the girls, the soft chuffs on his shoulder when he caught Steve staring, "You never said."

He shrugs, casual, but his breath is coming faster, Steve can see his chest rising and falling by the moonlight slotting through the blinds.

"Didn't want you to leave me."

"Buck, I would never leave you." Except for that one time he did, in the snow at the bottom of a mountain in Austria. Bucky must see it on his face because he takes two steps closer.

"That wasn't your fault. How about we focus on the more important part of this conversation, like how I've wanted you since '35 and now I think maybe you might—"

"I _do_. Jesus, how could we be so stupid?"

"Hey," Bucky says indignantly, stepping in close to him. Then he smiles and - _oh_ \- it's all of Steve's fantasies rolled into one but better because it's _real_. Bucky's biting on his lower lip, half bashful, half seductive and Steve will never know how he held out as long as he did. He reaches out for Bucky's hips, pretty sure he's about to wake up, hard and alone in his bed. But Bucky's hands skim up his arms, over his chest to his face.

He tips his chin up and presses his lips to Steve's so gently it's painful. Steve wants to kiss him properly, hungry for him the way he felt after coming out of the Vitaray machine, eating all the time and afraid he'd never be satisfied again. But he's looking a little skittish and Steve is more than willing to let him set the pace, given that he's been pining after him for the better part of a century.

Between gentle kisses, Bucky licks his lips, and the tip of his tongue brushes against Steve's lip. Steve sucks in a sharp breath, and Bucky, eyes open—watching him, leans in and licks Steve's lower lip deliberately. Steve's shaking from the effort of holding back, his hands gripping Bucky's hips too hard and Bucky— _oh thank_ _god—_  gives him mercy. A hot, wet kiss, bodies sliding together, tongues twining and licking.

It's Bucky who pulls away. Steve would kiss him for the next week and a half if he'd consent to it. Bucky's panting, eyes hooded and dark and Steve has never been prouder.

"I think that's all for tonight." 

Steve kisses him again at the door to the guest bedroom, just a chaste thing, quick and sweet, but it's _that_ kiss that keeps him up half the night; the affection in it, the promise.

* * *

"I still don't think it's a good idea."

Bucky does consent to being kissed more often than not (glory glory hallelujah) and is, in fact, rather adamant about it. Steve's nested between his thighs on the couch, sucking at his neck a week later when he remembers to bring up their living situation again.

"Waking up next to me every morning? How could that be a bad idea? I'll cook you breakfast."

Bucky cards his fingers through Steve's hair and sighs.

"At the Tower, there were people who could put me down if need be."

Steve jerks back, offended. "You don't think I can take you?" 

Bucky screws up his face. "What a weird thing to be wounded about. Can't you just be a normal boyfriend?"

Steve feels his eyes widen and he knows Bucky will never let him live down this blush, at such an innocuous word, when he'd just had his—

"Oh, I mean," Bucky looks like he's patiently going back a couple steps to let Steve catch up, like always. "Do you wanna be my boyfriend?"

Steve laughs; it's a pitifully weak word for his best friend, the air in his lungs, the other half of his soul. But he can't say all that. "I'm 95 years old."

"So... Yes?"

Steve laughs again. He can't help it. He's happy.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Holidays! 
> 
> <3
> 
> Title from Kitchen - Hallway by Michael Trent
> 
> 'Cause it's been taxi, van, port, bus, and trains  
> These days I can't much tell the difference  
> They all start to feel the same  
> Just close my eyes and rest my head right up against the window pane  
> Like a picture frame  
> Like a self portrait  
> So radio my folks  
> I think we're comin in on fumes  
> All this heavy cargo has just capsized our pontoon  
> Just tell the kitchen, tell the hallway, tell all the other rooms  
> I'll see ya soon


End file.
